


e=mc^2

by onepercent



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Muteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 05:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6182857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onepercent/pseuds/onepercent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not your typical coffee shop AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	e=mc^2

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to preface this by saying that I have no idea where this came from. Sorry. Can't tell you what crevice of my brain this came from. 
> 
> Also, I usually hate coffee shop AUs. I can't stand them. I don't understand a lot of fics that feature coffee shops because they are stressful places, and never have I once seen a fake dating premise begin there. Anyway. 
> 
> Enjoy!

John first meets Alexander at an off-campus bagel shop. He thinks coffee shops are overrated and noisy and unnecessarily romantic at any Starbucks establishment so Einstein Bagels it is.

He is sipping at his drink (opposed to only the shops, not the coffee itself), scrolling Instagram when he hears the tangy jingle of the orangey-yellow door-bells as a customer walks in. John looks up without thinking of why, but he does anyway. The guy is short and average in the way most un-average people tend to be. He is holding a crusty black wallet and a journal. He is bundled in a worn, leathery jacket rolled up to the elbows that might be considered vintage in the future but at this point in time is just old; he looks like a done-with piece of chewing gum spat back into its wrapper which is a shitty metaphor but also the only thing John can think of at the moment. 

Once John sees the tattoos, though–that is one fine piece of gum. Like, not just mint, but wintergreen or something–okay, he's going to have to stop with that. The tattoos are just words, printed in a kind of fuck-you Times New Roman all over his forearms. John's table is just a bit too far away to read them, but it certainly is intriguing. John turns off his phone discreetly so he can watch the dude. It sounds creepy, and it is, John realizes, but convinces himself that the creepiness is warranted because of how un-ordinary this guy is. 

The guy walks up to the counter, his height only further accentuated by the guy serving him, Thomas. Thomas asks the guy what he wants to drink. John doesn't hear a reply, but he sees the guy's index point to something on the menu. Thomas asks louder, slower, makes his mouth move dramatically wide. The guy digs his fingernail into the words in the plastic. Thomas nods, smirking, and the guy hands him a bit of cash in exchange for a table number. 

Hands all but juggling the table number, receipt, wallet and journal, the guy is about to walk away, eyes directed to a two-man-booth miraculously beside John's, but Thomas interrupts him. "Do you need help, sir?" 

The guy shakes his head. 

"Sir, I can come help you if you want," Thomas offers on the verge of yelling, his lips moving unnecessarily largely around the words. More eyes are drawn to the scene of the two men. The guy smiles bitterly, anger lacing his tired features, shakes his head again, shows his left palm to Thomas. 

"Seriously, sir," Thomas grins sickeningly sweetly, a facade to conceal his rude intentions John knows way too well. "Everyone needs help sometimes, especially the disabled."

The guy's eyes burn and he looks all too ready to start a fight, fist or otherwise. John kind of beats him to it. 

"Thomas, shut the ever-loving fuck up. He obviously doesn't need help, leave him the fuck alone, asshole."

Thomas holds his hands up in defense. "I was just trying to help, dude." 

The guy fumes but retreats to the table beside John's, almost throwing his belongings on the top. He rips open his journal, scribbles something. He holds up the paper. 

Can I sit with you 

John nods. The guy picks up the stuff he dumped on the table and moves it to John's, sliding into the chair opposite. He does not cease writing for about a minute until he slides John his page. 

I hate Thomas–he sucks baboon butthole, don't you think? He is so condescending and it's like what the fuck is your problem dude. Who puts a stick up his ass every single day? I'm Alexander Hamilton, by the way. Resident hater of Thomas Jefferson

John barks a laugh at the end. "John Laurens," he offers, sticking out his left hand. "Resident hater of Thomas Jefferson number two." Alexander shakes his hand enthusiastically. His hand is soft and firm, warm and calloused. John sneaks a glance at Alexander's palm. 

I can hear you 

it says in bolded font. 

Alexander notices his gaze and smiles sourly. His hand flies over another page. 

I'm not deaf, I just do not speak

"Why not?" John asks without thinking. He seems to be doing less and less of that these days. 

I used to a lot. All I did was talk. That's how I got to America

The word is scratched out to where John can only barely make out the A-m-e and the c-a at the end. It is corrected by

college. But I don't anymore. It's not a medical thing, or a monk thing either. I write a lot now. The Columbia newspaper, I write columns for that. The Federalist? Have you heard of that? I know it's heard of outside of school, so have you? 

“I go to Columbia,” John elaborates. “Medicine stuff, you know.”

Alexander points to three small words just below the crook of his elbow. 

Political science major

“I could've guessed,” John laughs. He really could have. 

Alexander laughs as well, choked but pleasant all the same. He looks at the banged-up watch on his wrist, then clenches a fist. He picks up his pen again, slides a note across the table. 

Gotta go, here's my number  
Text, it's no use to call

xxx xxx xxxx

John sips his coffee, long since gone cold, inputs the number in his phone.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed!! Talk to me on Instagram @zoraed


End file.
